


Taking Note

by burninglikeabridge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:09:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninglikeabridge/pseuds/burninglikeabridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new person in someone's life could make the both of them entirely new people. <br/>Sherlock knew this; it was child's play, after all. People change, to put it simply. <br/>It could be observed by taking simple notes of a person's behavior as they changed. <br/>One winter, Sherlock began to take note of his own developments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Note

~  
People developed over time; developed attatchments to things or people, developed new feelings upon changes in their lives, and experiences could shape someone's development.  
A new person in someone's life could change them entirely, could rewrite what they thought they knew about themselves.   
A new person in someone's life could make the both of them entirely new people.   
Sherlock knew this; it was child's play, after all. People change, to put it simply.   
It could be observed by taking simple notes of a person's behavior as they changed.   
One winter, Sherlock began to take note of his own developments.   
It shouldn't have been unusual; Sherlock was excellent at taking mental notes and cataloging emotional changes in people. He could know deeply held secrets about a person from just a simple, ten second glance. However, this time, he was taking note of his own feelings.   
Feelings he hadn't been aware of, prior to a recent change. That recent change was a person. Usually, people were boring, dull. They changed on a whim and reason didn't affect them. They could destroy each other, or save each other. It was all trivial; people were dramatic even when things didn't actually matter- dating, love, marriage, work, domesticity. People were dull.   
But maybe, not every person was.   
It started a week after John Watson moved into his flat.   
At first, Sherlock was distantly aware of his interest in John. John was decently attractive, and polite. His hair was cut short and plain, his clothes sensible and weather-based. He seemed a bit isolated, though, and maybe a slight bit lonely. Exactly the kind of person available for a date, maybe ready for commitment? The kind of man who would hold open doors and be just gentlemanly enough, maybe the kind of man who made friends easily.   
Sherlock supposed that most people would be interested in John.   
Still, John Watson was not spectacular.  
Sherlock had deduced him down to nothing in five minutes at most, and found nothing extraordinary.  
Ex-army, doctor, not even a single interesting hobby besides the occasional nail or lip biting.   
Sherlock looked him over again- Wait. Ah, yes. John leaned against the table as he spoke, his shoulders loose, no tension in his body. Sherlock smirked. All signs of submissiveness; perhaps John had a bit of a kink? Sherlock could easily imagine him allowing himself to be pushed into a wall, into a bed. He shoved the thoughts away; unimportant.   
Then John glanced up at Sherlock again, and he shifted, and the open submissiveness of his body language was gone as he crossed his arms and straightened.   
Maybe not, Sherlock thought.   
John was as generic and bland as any passerby, either way.   
Sherlock was just barely disappointed; not everyone could be brilliant and wonderful enough to hold his attention, true. John certainly wasn't.   
But then, just hours later, Sherlock had reconsidered.  
'Amazing,' John had said, with utmost sincerity, nodding his head. 'Brilliant.'   
The easy way the words rolled off his tongue, the appreciative smile he gave Sherlock, the soft line of his shoulder as he leaned into the seat; it all screamed with the need to be dominated. Sherlock shifted in his own seat, uncomfortable at the idea of wanting to see John in such a compromising position.   
Sherlock had turned away to smile, basked in the glow of the compliments, taking note of the satisfaction that John's approval gave him and the feeling of imagining being the one to dominate John.   
He didn't know what exactly to note about it, yet.   
Maybe John did have the ability to hold his attention.

It wasn't until three days later that Sherlock took note of himself again.   
John had been in the kitchen one morning, making coffee. Sherlock dragged himself from his bedroom to the couch. It must've been around six or seven, judging from the pale sunlight filtering into the room from the window.   
Sherlock stared at the wall. Boring.   
His eyes wandered to John. John wore a loose gray T-shirt and black trousers, and no shoes or socks.   
Not boring.   
Sherlock stared at him; his bare arms, his messy hair, his bare feet. Still relaxed and calm from sleep, all his defenses down. It was times like these when Sherlock found his mind wandering to thinking of John in more explicit ways; John letting Sherlock push him into the wall, letting Sherlock have his way.   
Sherlock swallowed, willing the thoughts away.   
John turned, a crooked smile on his face as he walked over and handed Sherlock a cup of coffee.   
They didn't speak- they didn't need to, much. The cup burned Sherlock's hands but he pushed the thought away.  
Unimportant; he was focused too intently on John.  
John curled up on the couch, a few feet away from where Sherlock sat. He tucked his feet underneath him and sipped his coffee.   
No sugar, Sherlock noticed. He stored the knowledge in the back of his mind. That would be important one day. Everything he could gather about John was important.   
He wasn't bad, Sherlock decided, nodding to himself. John Watson was very aesthetically pleasing, yes. It was the first time he had fully acknowledged his attraction to John.   
His blonde hair was ruffled from sleep, his blue eyes bright in the sunlight from the window- he was like a painting, so still, so lovely.   
He didn't look at Sherlock, which Sherlock supposed was okay. Most people didn't appreciate being stared at, anyways. Not in the way that they should.   
John Watson did not look like anyone Sherlock had ever known. His features were soft, nothing out of the ordinary. Sherlock couldn't place it, but something about him was different.   
His eyes fascinated him the most; they were sad eyes, the eyes of a man who had seen too much. But they were also kind eyes, the eyes of someone who couldn't see everything like Sherlock could, but who would look and try to see and try to understand.   
When he turned those eyes on Sherlock, they weren't judgmental or annoyed, not like other people. They were just as kind for Sherlock as they were for the women John sometimes dated.   
Why, Sherlock couldn't understand.   
Sherlock wasn't like them; he didn't smile and look up at John through his eyelashes, he didn't play with his hair and kiss John's cheek, he didn't laugh softly at John's jokes. Sherlock didn't want that; he wanted to tie John up and hear John yell his name, hear John beg.   
But there was no begging.   
The two of them simply coexisted within the flat. And still, John looked at Sherlock the same, as if he was actually fond of his company.   
Sherlock didn't understand, but he didn't want it to change.   
John in the morning was especially fascinating.  
He was still warm from his bed, comfortable. He never changed unless they had somewhere to go.   
This morning, they didn't have plans and John still wore nightclothes.   
The loose shirt hung off of his collarbone on the right side, and Sherlock's eyes drifted to the exposed skin. He wondered about the scar that must be there, the remnants of his army incident, on his shoulder, just below that thin fabric. Would it still be red, angry skin? Would it have faded to white now? Sherlock wanted to see. He wanted to touch. Would John flinch as his cold fingers traced the mark, or would he sigh, lean into the touch?   
He wanted to touch John, more than just his scar, to trace his fingers carefully over every inch of skin he could find. He wanted to pull John close, to catalogue every sensation of him. He wanted to draw breathy, small sounds from John's lips. He was paralyzed by the desire.   
He'd never wanted anything in an animalistic way like this; nothing since drugs or cigarettes.   
Take note of this, he reminded himself, biting his lip to keep from admitting his thoughts.   
This is important. 

John was important now.   
Sherlock cared less and less about the tedious cases they worked. He turned his full attention to John.   
It had been over two weeks since John Watson had moved in, and in that time, he'd changed everything.   
He'd developed this strange habit of surprising Sherlock. It was a quirk that Sherlock wasn't used to. People didn't surprise him; it simply didn't happen.   
But with John, it did.   
It would happen in the smallest of moments; their fingertips brushing as John handed Sherlock a cup of tea, John catching his eye during a case and smiling, John stifling a laugh at Sherlock's horrendously innappropriately timed murder jokes.   
In those moments, Sherlock would stop. He would hold his breath and wait, listen to the sound of his own heartbeat and wonder what was happening to him.  
Being near John flooded his body with physical sensations he wasn't used to, and also to new emotions and ideas. It was confusing and terrifying. Being near John was like standing to close to fire. John was warmth, John was the sun. Sherlock had always been ice: he was cold. Sherlock wanted to wrap himself up in the comfort of John, to be childish and maybe even stupid and let John lie to him. That's what people in love often did; lied to each other. Wasn't it? The lying could bring warmth to each other, could protect one another from harsh truths.   
Sherlock had never understood that, really. But maybe now he did- maybe he loved John.   
He'd never longed for any emotional or physical warmth from anyone before.   
Until John. Is that love? Sherlock didn't know. Terms could be applied later- now, observation was the main priority. He needed to focus on John.   
John was the sun and Sherlock wanted to burn up in it.   
John was danger.   
Danger; Sherlock was developing new sensations, and one of them was painfully close to sentiment. 

The first time Sherlock acted on any of his observations, he was nervous. He was inexperienced and unsure, but how else could he complete this experiment without acting?   
The first time, just after returning to the flat after an unsuccessful chase, Sherlock turned to John.  
His heart raced, whether it was from the running or from the anticipation of what he was about to do, he didn't know.   
John's back was to the wall next to Sherlock, who leaned against the door.   
John looked up at him, chest heaving. He met Sherlock's eyes and confusion bloomed across his expression.   
Sherlock held his breath. John was danger to him.   
'Sherlock?' John, so concerned, always. A doctor's mentality; always pushing aside his own thoughts to tend to others' needs. Sherlock filed that idea in the part of his mind that was now reserved for John: information about John, thoughts about John. John often consumed even the most logical parts of his mind.   
Sherlock didn't reply. He leaned closer just the slightest bit, testing John's reaction. Panic flitted across John's face for a second, and Sherlock could practically see his mind working, and he could see John thinking: Why is Sherlock doing this?   
John looked away.  
Sherlock catalogued his reaction: Tense shoulders, fidgeting hands, throat clearing. John was rejecting him, rejecting his advances. He was trying to avoid a potentially awkward situation.   
Sherlock moved away, his heart sinking. The feeling was unfamiliar to him, and unsettling. It felt like a weight sinking into his lungs, creeping up his throat until his breath came in a harsh gasp.   
Perhaps this experiment had gone too far, maybe he was too deeply involved and attatched to John to get an accurate observation.   
Sentiment is foolish, he reminded himself.   
He glanced over at John, who was blushing the slightest bit and turning his face away to hide it from Sherlock.   
John; blushing, turning away, nervous. Nervous? Signs of affection, of uncertainty. Signs of a possibility of John's interest. Sherlock's mind raced to take note of each detail; John's hands twisting themselves together, the small smile as he stole a glance back up at Sherlock, the way he shifted his feet.   
John, always astounding, always wonderful.   
A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and he turned away to hide it.   
Perhaps I am a fool, he thought. 

Sherlock's experiment was a failure.  
He drew this conclusion late one night, sitting next to John on the couch. They were quiet, while an old movie played and neither of them really watched.   
John's feet were stretched out next to him, close enough to touch if he wanted to.   
Sherlock didn't move to touch him, even though he imagined what it would feel like. Would John's bare feet be cold? Would he jump in surprise at the touch?   
Sherlock wasn't sure.   
He wasn't sure what reaction he would even want to elicit from John.   
He was too uncertain. This experiment was entirely too complicated now.   
'Sherlock?' John moved, shifting so that he was sitting up more, and coming closer to Sherlock.   
'John.' Sherlock looked away, folding his hands in his lap. He felt John move closer, leaning against his shoulder.   
'Can I ask you something?' John spoke quietly. It would have been illogical to talk any louder; they were so close. Sherlock shifted, uncomfortable.   
'Is it dull?' Sherlock replied, leaning away from John.  
Close, Sherlock thought. He's so close and I can't do all the things I want to do to him and I can't handle this.   
John placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock attempted to shrug him off, but John didn't budge. He was practically in Sherlock's lap now.   
'No.' John said slowly. 'It's important.'   
Sherlock sighed, lightly pushing at John until they were sitting next to each other again. He tried to pretend that it was just casual, that he was trying to get more comfortable on the couch. He let out a shaky breath, feeling John's warmth against his side. He needed space between them, and soon.   
'Sherlock,' John didn't look at him. Sherlock felt panic rising in his chest.   
Ridiculous, he thought. Why should I panic? It's only John. I know him. I know what he will say and do. He can't panic me.   
'Do you like me living here?' John's voice was small. Sherlock stared blankly at the television. He looked over at John; John was nervous, tapping his fingers against each other, looking anywhere but at Sherlock.   
'It is... An ideal arrangement.' Sherlock said awkwardly.   
John's head snapped up, his eyes wide in surprise.  
'Ideal?' He sounded hopeful. What could he be hoping for? Of course Sherlock thought he was ideal. He was more than ideal. He was superb. If he wasn't, Sherlock would have scared him out of the flat within a week.   
'Yes, John.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You are ideal.'   
'Me?'   
Oh, John. So naive, so... Silly.   
Of course you are, Sherlock thought. His mind raced to catalogue every detail of John: his bright eyes, the flickering light if the television on his face, his hair ruffled from laying against the couch, the soft smile.   
Of course, John.   
'Yes.' Sherlock said instead. He wanted to shake John, to explain to him in elaborate detail just how fantastic he thought John was.   
'Oh... I... Oh.' John sat back against the couch.   
Sherlock looked at him. Is he surprised? He wondered. Why would John be surprised?   
'What exactly did you expect?' Sherlock frowned.   
'I don't know. It's just.. You seem to be constantly annoyed with me.' John ran a hand through his hair.  
Slight shaking, Sherlock noted. Nerves?   
Sherlock frowned again. He could never get annoyed with John.  
Other people, yes. Consistently and always. But John, no, never John. John was kind and caring and open. John did not annoy him.   
'You don't bother me.' Sherlock told him.   
John glanced up at him, and his hair was falling onto his face, and he looked disheveled and confused. And oh, so perfect.   
'It seems like that's not true.'   
'Well, it is. John, I do not tolerate you.'   
John's face fell and he looked down to hide it.   
'I don't need to,' Sherlock went on. 'You are the best man I've ever known. You aren't a person I am forced to tolerate.'   
Sherlock kept talking even though John wasn't looking at him.   
'I enjoy... You. Being with... Around you.' Now's the time to tell him, Sherlock thought. To put this into words, to communicate these messy, human things.   
But how? Simply?   
You're wonderful.   
You're perfect.  
You're everything.  
I think I love you.   
'I...like you.' Sherlock said instead.   
John coughed once, and it sounded forced and fake.   
'Sherlock.'  
'John, you are-'  
'Stop.' John held up a hand, shaking his head.   
'Did I do that wrong?' Sherlock asked quickly. He felt panic bubble in his chest. This time, the panic felt justified. Now is time for panic, he thought. People panic when they fear rejection, don't they? Do I fear that? From John?   
'Sherlock, it's just-'   
John stood.   
Sherlock felt small for the first time since he could remember, looking up at John. The wonderful, incomparable John.   
'I need to know that you mean this.'   
Oh. Confusion flooded him. Sherlock wondered if he was supposed to stand, too. John seemed to be waiting for him to do something.   
So he stood.   
John stumbled back a step, looking uncertain and anxious.   
'I mean what I've said.' Sherlock stepped closer, biting his lip. The difference in their height was perfect. Sherlock simply had to lean down, and he could press their lips together softly and...   
Sherlock brought his hand up to John's face and traced his finger over his cheek.   
John's eyes fluttered closed and his breathing hitched.   
He wants it, Sherlock realized. He wants me to touch him.   
'I don't want you to do anything you're going to regret in the morning.' John murmured. Sherlock reached with his other hand to thread his fingers through John's.   
John was as warm as he'd imagined. Warm, soft; he was comfort. He was exactly as he was supposed to be and more.   
Sherlock sighed.   
John's eyes snapped open.  
He glanced down at their hands, then back up to Sherlock.   
Sherlock waited. He'd done all he could do; he didn't have the courage to close the final distance. It was up to John now.   
John parted his lips, and Sherlock felt his warm breath against his neck.   
'Kiss me.' John breathed.   
Sherlock didn't know how to properly react, but somehow he was already moving forward, pressing his body flush against John, leaning down and catching John's mouth with his.  
John kissed back hungrily, reaching up to tangle both of his hands in Sherlock's hair.   
Sherlock fumbled to slide his arms around John, pulling him as close as he could.   
He'd never actually kissed anyone like this before; his heart thudded against his chest, his pulse raced, his skin tingled. He ached with want- to touch, to taste, to kiss.   
John tasted like Sherlock imagined sunlight itself would taste. John's mouth open against his was as wonderful as he'd thought it would be.   
Is this sentiment? He thought fleetingly. Is sentiment this fantastic feeling?  
No, this is more.  
Sherlock kissed him hard, backing him up until John's back was pressed to the wall.   
John moaned against his mouth, tilting his head back. Sherlock pressed soft kisses down his neck, and John's fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt.   
Ah, Sherlock remembered. John's submissive complex.   
Sherlock forced his mind to take note of this as he ran his hands down John's sides.   
Maybe the experiment wasn't a failure. 

 

They lay together one Sunday morning in their bed.   
No use having two anymore when they slept side by side every night.   
John pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.  
Sentiment.   
Something Sherlock had grown to understand over the year they'd lived together.   
People changing was something he could understand now, too.   
Sometimes a new person comes into someone's life, and changes everything. Sometimes that's a very, very good thing.   
Sentiment, human weakness.  
John, Sherlock longed to tell him. You are my human weakness. 

Given the opportunity, Sherlock would never have let him go.   
Sherlock would have married him.   
Given the opportunity, Sherlock would have held his hand every night until he fell asleep, been there to kiss away the memory of every nightmare. Given the opportunity, Sherlock would have been there forever.  
Now, he was not.   
He fell asleep every night, an ocean away from John, telling himself this.  
He would have died to protect John. In a sense, he had. He'd left a part of himself behind trying to keep John safe.   
John was home, grieving his loss while he was continents away, pretending to be dead.   
Those precious moments on the rooftop were burned into his mind.   
'No one could be that clever.' Sherlock had lied. He had fought to keep the panic from his voice. He needed to sound calm, decided. He needed John to believe this, no matter how much it would hurt him.   
'You could.' John's voice cracked. Sherlock heard the pain, even through the phone.   
Sherlock's heart had nearly given out, his knees almost buckling.  
He could barely see John's face, all the way down on the ground.   
Did that make it easier, or harder?   
Oh, John. He wanted to say.   
I'm just trying to save you. I'm trying.   
John's broken cries of his name filled his head, the way John had cried.   
John.   
John always filled his head; even here, in an anonymous motel, under a fake name, cold and alone.   
Even after so long.   
He owed John so much.   
When I come back, he promised himself, I'll give you everything. I'll give myself to you, if you'll have me. 

His return was not everything he'd needed it to be.   
Sherlock practically hummed with the anticipation of seeing John again.   
On the long plane ride, then train trip.   
All the way back to London, all for John.   
John, he imagined himself saying. I've missed you.  
He'd kiss John breathless, and John would cry. John would be speechless, so happy to have Sherlock back.   
Everything would be right again, and they would be together.

Sherlock didn't speak to a single soul. He walked all the way to Angelo's alone, in the cold. He didn't have his coat, but the chill of the winter air didn't bother him much.  
Winter; it reminded him of the first few months spent with John. The best year of his life.  
So many memories- kisses in the snow, gloved hands laced together, holding John until he was warm again. John was always warm. Sherlock held him anyways.   
Sherlock stopped outside the window of the restaurant.   
John.   
Sherlock nearly choked.   
He was as perfect as always and exactly the same. His grey jumper, his hair neatly cut.   
The restaurant was lit with golden light, and John sat right next to the window at a table.   
Sherlock remembered those blue eyes looking up at him, remembered that mouth smiling, kissing. He could almost feel John's hand sliding into his own, squeezing once, reassuring Sherlock that he was there, he was with him.   
John. Sherlock felt happiness bubble up. He'd missed him so badly.   
But John was not alone.   
John was sitting there, across from a woman.  
She was plain, with blonde hair, very little makeup and kind eyes.   
He held her hand on top of the table.  
They wore matching rings on their left hands.   
Sherlock's chest felt heavy.   
Sherlock had been gone too long. Two years? Three?   
Here John was. He'd stopped waiting.  
He'd gone on without Sherlock.   
Here he was, with someone else.   
He probably laid in bed with her all morning, probably held her hand while they walked. He probably kissed her in the snow, held her when she was cold. He had probably gotten down on his knee in front of her, telling her he loved her, asking for forever.   
They probably kissed often and drank coffee together in the mornings and watched bad television at night. John's feet probably sat on her lap while they were on the couch, and sometimes she probably laid her head against his shoulder and he kissed her forehead.   
John probably loved her.   
John was in front of him now, but he wasn't with him anymore.   
He was spending the entirety of his life with someone who was not Sherlock.  
Sherlock's heart stopped.   
John looked up, right at Sherlock, his eyes bright and sad.   
And he saw nothing, only the cold, empty night air.   
It was as if Sherlock was not there at all.   
He wasn't. 

Sherlock had not spent three years overseas. Sherlock had not spent three years solving crimes under a false identity. He had not slept in motels alone. Sherlock had not faked his suicide to save John's life.  
Sherlock had spent three years in a box six feet underground. He had spent three years roaming the earth, a shell of a person, only to drift back to John.   
Sherlock had died to protect John.

Sherlock wiped away tears and smiled sadly through the window.  
How is it that a ghost can cry? He wondered.   
Oh, John. I lived for you. I died for you.   
Are you happy? He wondered, pressing his palm to the glass. It felt real, solid. His fingers didn't dissolve through like vapor. He felt real.   
He looked at the woman, and then back at John.   
John smiled up at her, like he had at Sherlock a thousand times.  
Sherlock felt dead.   
His chest felt hollow.   
He looked at John one more time. John had never changed, even though he'd changed Sherlock so much.   
John's hair was the same, his kind eyes the same.   
Sherlock smiled at him one last time before turning away. 

Given the opportunity, he never would have let John go.   
He would have kissed John every chance he got, would have held John through the night, would have reached for his hand to comfort him. He would have told John how wonderful he was. He would have gotten down on one knee and asked for forever.   
Given the opportunity, he would have never let John move on and have forever with anyone else.  
But Sherlock did not get that opportunity.   
He blinked back tears and, as he walked, felt lighter and lighter.   
He held up one hand. So pale in the darkness, so translucent now.   
He could see the pavement where he should have been able to see flesh.   
I'm dying, he thought, hysterical. I'm dying for real this time.  
He'd read somewhere once that ghosts left earth when they'd taken care of all unfinished business.   
Was that what I had to do? Let him go?   
Will he be happy now, without me? Sherlock didn't know.  
A bitter part of him wanted John to grieve his loss, to feel the part of him that should have been torn away when Sherlock died. But another part of him, the part that cared for John most deeply, needed him to move on and feel happiness again.   
Did I make him happy back then? Sherlock wondered.   
He'd seemed so happy; stealing kisses, smiling up at him, laughing at even the worst jokes. They'd both been so happy.   
Sherlock wished he could take to the woman- to John's wife. To make her promise to take care of John, to love him completely and fully. To make her take note of every important little thing about John. To make sure she knew to wake him up with soft kisses, to stay up with him after a nightmare. To make sure that she remembered he took his coffee with no sugar.   
Sherlock wanted John to have everything he deserved.   
He supposed that was his goodbye, then. What a poor one it was, not even being able to touch him or speak to him one last time.  
But it was enough, he thought. Perhaps seeing him will he enough to put me to rest, after so much time.   
Is that sentiment? How foolish; Sherlock was selfish. He wanted John, forever and to himself. He wanted to drag John into the afterlife or hell or wherever he ended up, right alongside him.   
But he couldn't do that to John. John deserved so much more than he could give him now.   
John had always been his most human weakness, stripping his arrogance and petty concerns away, making him fill up and spill over with emotions he wasn't even aware he had.   
It was beyond sentiment.   
You love him, Sherlock told himself, feeling himself fading away.   
You love John Watson, and always will.   
Take note.


End file.
